


Morning

by Anythingtoasted



Series: Adventures in the Batcave [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, PWP, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fluff, pwp. For <a href="http://donechesters.tumblr.com">Donechesters</a> on tumblr, who likes tickly!fic ♥</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning

Castiel skirts a hand up his side, fingers dipping into the slight curve of his waist.

It’s morning, and the room, windowless, is all but grey. Castiel is sitting with his thighs astride Dean’s naked waist, as he so often has  since he returned; he skims his fingers over the long, brown scape of Dean’s back, dipping the tips of them deftly against the waves and lines of his muscles, his bones, the new scars on his skin.

His hands drift, pressing lightly around the flesh at his waist, the give of the soft pouch of his belly – and Dean twitches convulsively under his touch, and is fully, suddenly, awake.

He stops.

“Did that hurt?” he asks, carefully, stricken by the way Dean flinched under his hand. Dean chuckles.

“Nah. I’m fine.”

“Then-“ Castiel, again, finds the place with his fingers, and this time Dean – forearms on the pillow under his head – tenses, muscles stiffening in anticipation; he all but  _coils up,_ and Castiel, fascinated, jabs him – gently- again. This time, the pressure more distinct, Dean jerks, twisting, in reaction. “-What’s that?” Castiel finishes, honestly interested. Dean snorts, but he flinches a little when Castiel puts his hands, flat, over his hips this time.

“Nothing. Just-“ Dean stops when he does it again. He makes a noise – a muffled cough, maybe, or another snort. Castiel does it again, mostly to feel him move; feel those broad shoulders tremble, spasm indefinably; and Dean laughs, unmistakeable. A sharp, clear bark, muffled by the pillow. A slow smile spreads onto Castiel’s face.

“Ticklish.” He supplies, and Dean shifts half-heartedly under him; reaches awkwardly back with a hand to swat at his arms.

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He murmurs, sleepy still, though Castiel has been awake for almost an hour – got up to wander around the library in a t-shirt and no underwear (not really thinking of if poor Sam got up for a walk) and then returned to Dean, and pressed his face against the hunter’s bed-heated cheek.

A smile hanging stubbornly around the edges of his mouth, Castiel shifts his hands up; lays his fingers - just  _lays_  them -  on the flesh of Dean’s waist, before applying gentle pressure with each of them, pressing into his sides in a slow wave. Immediately, Dean starts to tremble beneath him, and stutters another huff of laughter, uncontrollably, into the air. “Cas, I’m being serious.” But the angel continues, pressing slightly harder, revelling in the effect this has on him – underneath Castiel Dean’s legs are tensed, pressed hard into the mattress, occasionally abortively lifting, then dropping down again. The whole of Dean’s body is twitching in reaction. Dean grunts, pretending annoyance, but the grunt is good-natured; he shifts under Castiel, rolls over to face him, and though his expression is mostly displeased, his mouth is twitching upwards just as much as Castiel’s is.

“Stop it.” He says, but he smiles as he does so, and Castiel knows him well enough by now to know that if he keeps at this, he’s going to hear Dean  _laugh, properly –_ and it’s such a rare thing, so lovely, that he really has no other choice but to push on.

He does it again, fingers pressing at the small pouch of flesh on Dean’s stomach, the gorgeous, gentle slope of extra weight which he carries, and which Castiel has kissed more times recently than he can even count. Dean arches – he laughs then, fully and loud, breaking off helplessly, lifting his hands to grab at Castiel’s wrists – but Dean is  _laughing,_ unrestrained, under Castiel’s hands, and Castiel wants to take this moment and frame it; wants to replay it, over and over; hang it in the dining-hall of the Men of Letters Headquarters, so he can look at it, and it back at him, forever (or until Sam forces him to take it down).

Dean breathes, heavy, little gasps escaping him, and he is looking at Castiel with the most contemptuous, reluctantly affectionate expression the angel has ever seen him wear.  He bends forward to kiss him and Dean leans up to meet him, but Castiel’s hands are still at his waist, and he presses again, making Dean jerk forward and knock foreheads with him, laughing once more.

“Cas, seriously. Sam’s up. He’ll  _hear.”_

“I would say that was  _entirely_ your fault, Dean. You’re the one making noise.”

“Fucker.” Dean mutters back, sitting up  - and Castiel lets him, moves to sit on his lap, kneeling still, his thighs either side of Dean’s waist.

The want comes, as it always does, slowly and almost with no warning; one moment he is talking to Dean, casual and almost detached, unconcerned – the next he’s flushed, half hard, a slow uncoil of lust in his gut that makes him lean close, press his chest to Dean’s, kiss him deep, with intent. Dean grins against his mouth.

“This is more fun.” He murmurs, softly, and kisses Castiel again.

Castiel pulls back. “I like your laugh. I like making you laugh.” He says, very seriously, and Dean looks up at the ceiling, as he usually does when Castiel is embarrassing him.

“Shut up, Cas. You just like  _me.”_

Castiel snorts, at that. “True.” He muses, tilting his head. “Not  _all_ of you, though. I dislike the way you steal the covers in the mornings, and wrap yourself in them so I can’t take them back. I don’t  _particularly_ like it when you break wind in front of me.”  He wrinkles his nose. Dean laughs again, but only a little.

“I told you, dude, that’s  _Sam_.”

“It’s not wise to tell lies to angels, Dean.”

Dean rolls his eyes and kisses him again. He brings his hands up to card them through Castiel’s hair. “So, last night.” He mutters indelicately, lips against the angel’s chin. “That was –“

Castiel cuts him off, pressing his forehead to Dean’s. “I thought you were  _tired.”_ He says, but as he mutters it he rolls his hips against Dean’s, hands held still on his waist.  Dean shrugs.

It’s easy, now, like it never was before; different, and  _easy._ Before it was hurried, rushed, a secret; Castiel remembers a time in his long life when moments with Dean were not like this; when they were painful and anguished and nonsensical; when they fought and twisted away and bit and yelled.

Now there is this silence, this ease. There’s kissing Dean, pushing him gently back and having Dean give under his hands, more than willing. There’s settling between his knees, looking him over, slowly; his cock, flushed and wet already against his stomach; his eyes tracking Castiel’s with a mix of amusement and anticipation. Castiel bends; kisses the soft space below his navel, then his hip. Looks at his face as he pushes a finger, dry, underneath him, inside him, and Dean tilts his jaw upwards, fumbling a hand in the sheets.

“Cas,  _c’mon.”_  He says, warning, because they have to actually  _go somewhere_ today and he knows Castiel likes to draw it out; fuck him with his fingers til he begs, kiss him and roll against him for minutes on end, bringing him to the edge and letting him go, over and over. “Hurry up.”

Castiel sighs, acquiescing, and leans over the side of the bed to grab the bottle of lube from the night before, and squeeze a generous amount onto his fingers. He works two fingers inside at Dean’s insistence and he’s relatively loose around them, which isn’t really all that surprising, considering they were doing the very same thing not five hours ago. Castiel doesn’t sleep, and though Dean’s ‘getting back into it’ (his words), he doesn’t really sleep for long, either. Dean, knees pulled up on either side of Castiel, nudges at him with his ankle, bratty.

“Come. On.” He repeats. Castiel huffs – but withdraws his fingers, Dean drawing breath sharply as he does, and takes himself in hand.

He likes, he has found, the in-betweens; the moments  _before_ and  _after._  Andthough he enjoys the interim very much, he likes twilights; waitings; he likes that slow, aching pause as he guides himself inside Dean, as he pushes in, and Dean makes a noise like the wind going out of him, like he’s forgotten, even, to breathe. Because Dean will irk him, and Castiel will irritate him in return, and they, one day, again, will move past this small honeymoon they’re experiencing and come out the other side something else – but in these in-betweens there is little else but love, slow and liquid. Castiel bottoms out, watching Dean, always, and feeling heat surge inside him at the sight of his throat bared to the ceiling.

He pulls out almost all the way then pushes back in, Dean’s feet pulling up, pulling the sheets with them, bunching them around Castiel’s back as he builds up a rhythm, as he starts to fuck him, slowly, in earnest.

It’s quiet, but for his breathing, but for Dean’s – silent, almost, although faraway Castiel can hear the sounds of the coffee-maker starting up, of birdsong outside. Slow, morning sounds, far away from them.

And he loves it, he does, but he misses Dean’s laughter; so he moves his hands from where he’s holding Dean by his waist, and he tickles him.

Just slightly, experimental. More to see what it will do, than out of any particular, pointed desire – and the reaction is nothing like he expects.

Dean, panting his name under his breath as quietly as he can, heels nudging at Castiel – one against the sole of his folded foot, another at his hip – tenses. _Clenches_ his whole body around Castiel, a long, delicious, still moment for a second, and then he opens his eyes and looks at him.

“Don’t you  _dare.”_ He says, as he did before, breath laboured, words coming in gasps. “ _Cas.”_ He says, warning, but Castiel grins at him, and rolls his hips into him, even as he does it again; presses his fingers into both sides of his waist, and Dean barks a hysterical peal of laughter, shocked and loud.  “Cas,  _please_ – Sam –“

But Castiel has found himself enraptured by it; by Dean’s reluctant joy, by the way Dean tenses, briefly; tenses his muscles around Cas’ cock before he laughs, and it vibrates against Castiel’s chest, goes through him, a slowly unfurling  _roll_ of heat. He does it again, and again – tickles Dean and fucks him as best he can when Dean is scrabbling at his hands to pull him down, leaning up so Castiel can kiss him, missing his mouth as he laughs, unable even to  _kiss him_  as he almost _giggles,_ the sound renewing every time Castiel presses in with his fingers on Dean’s waist, with his cock.

Dean’s laughter ratchets higher, builds like orgasm – and Castiel can’t keep a rhythm, can’t hold on, slips out of him when he pushes his fingers especially firmly into Dean’s waist and Dean  _twists,_ legs folding up, turning on his side, _crying_ with laughter and scrabbling at Castiel’s hands, holding them and pushing them away and pulling them back, muttering “Jesus,  _Cas,_ I’m-“ he lies there, and Castiel is left looking down at him, grinning wide, cock still hard and slick, the expression on his face positively stupid with pleasure.

When Dean has calmed down – and it takes him awhile, his shoulders shaking – he sits up, and takes Castiel’s face in both his hands, and pulls him close to kiss him. “ _Ticklish.”_ He says with a sigh, sounding exasperated, and presses his mouth to the angel’s, and takes him by the hips, in return – pushes his fingers into Castiel’s side, as the angel did to him. Castiel jerks, a surprised chuckle escaping him.  “See? Not so great, is it?”

Castiel laughs without Dean’s  help; pulls himself close with his heels so they’re sitting, legs folded awkwardly, almost chest to chest. He takes them both in hand, then, and strokes them both together, kissing Dean, slow. He breaks away, breathing soft and heavy against Dean’s mouth, keening into his own fist as they rub against each other, and Dean’s hand joins his. “I like it.” He says, simply.

And Dean laughs for the millionth time as he comes, the noise breaking off, swallowed by Castiel as he follows not far behind, mouth open, eyes closed, a smile between them, their hands dripping as they stroke each other through it together, trading kisses that get slower and slower and slower.

Dean leans his forehead on Castiel’s shoulder after a moment; breathes, wet, against him. “Oh, shit.” He says, remembering. “Poor Sam.”

Castiel drops a kiss on the top of his head. “Poor Sam.” He sighs, conceding. “We should make breakfast.”

Dean pulls away from his shoulder; sighs, too. “S’pose it’s the least we can do.” But before he pulls away – before getting up, getting dressed, getting the third degree (again) for being  _totally inconsiderate_ – Dean brushes his thumb over Castiel’s eyelid, dips to kiss his mouth, chaste and soft.

“Morning, Cas.” He murmurs.

The angel grins in reply.  

“Morning.”


End file.
